London, October 1815

“Welcome, Lord and Lady Standish. His grace and the others are in the drawing room.”

Samantha smiled at Wallace as she and William swept past and continued across the foyer of Langley House. The museum-feel of the place hadn’t improved a jot, but as they made their way down a portrait-lined hallway, she was stunned to see two neat piles of broken porcelain awaiting removal. “Oh dear.”

“Alexander is at his wit’s end,” said William grimly. “Robert is drinking heavily, his moods are unpredictable, and he doesn’t sleep. But he refuses to see a doctor, or anyone from the army, since they honorably discharged him for medical reasons.”

“They discharged him? But he was so brilliant. Couldn’t they have used him to train new recruits, or even help with planning? So many men were lost at Waterloo, I can’t believe they would just discard someone of Lord Robert’s ability.”

“To be fair, I’m not entirely sure they wanted to. The decision was deferred for some time. But with his drinking and unwillingness to leave the house, Wellington was forced to cut him loose.”

Samantha shook her head. The poor man. How awful, to be a younger son who had finally found his purpose, to succeed beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, only to have it cruelly snatched away in that skirmish in France. Lord Robert was only twenty-seven years old. Surely he couldn’t be thinking to give up entirely.

Pressing closer to William, she reached down and gave her swelling belly a pat. It was a new game between her and the baby, and it never failed to make her smile when her hand received an answering nudge. Little joys like that almost made up for the aching back, swollen ankles, and constant need for the chamber pot thanks to the baby using her insides as a personal playroom. Almost.

“A-ha! Finally the recently weds arrive,” said Lord Ardmore, as they entered Alexander’s drawing room. “We forgive you your tardiness, I understand the marital rule book allows a certain number of months for lateness due to bedchamber antics.”

William choked on a cough. “Samantha’s hair needed attending to. And that is an event in itself.”

Indeed. Especially when one’s husband tangled his fingers in it during a quick, erotic, intimate time in his copper bathing tub.

“My coiffure offers its deepest apologies,” added Samantha demurely.

Louisa gave her a sly wink. “So difficult to find an excellent lady’s maid. Some have such large, masculine hands.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Caroline from where she lounged on a chaise next to Stephen. “I can think of countless occasions when you used the hair excuse, Lulu.”

Lord Trentham turned and looked at his wife. “Really? Hair? I would have thought a mighty chemist brain like yours could have thought of a far better lie….ow. No pinching.”

Alexander clapped his hands together. “When you are all quite finished with your tawdry tales, supper is served.”

“Poor Southby. No need for envy just because you don’t have a tawdry tale of your own to share.”

Smothering a grin, Samantha and William followed the others to the formal dining room. If ducal glares actually turned a person to stone, Louisa would be carting home a statue rather than a husband.

The carved oak dining table seemed about a mile long, but fortunately all the place settings were at one end. Conversation was far easier this way, and all seven guests plus Alexander took their seats. Soon, footmen were pouring champagne and brandy, and setting gold-rimmed bowls of deliciously scented soup in front of them.

“Well, well. What a lovely looking party,” slurred a voice from the doorway, and the room fell silent as Lord Robert ambled in.

Alexander stood abruptly. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here, do I not, brother? And once upon a time these men were my friends.”

Lord Ardmore lifted a hand. “Rogues down this end of the table, Robbie. Come and join me.”

“No,” said Alexander coldly. “Robert, you’re drunk. Unshaven. And not even dressed properly.”

“Who cares about fucking cravats?” said Lord Robert.

“I care. Go and get changed if you wish to join us.”

“Go to hell, your grace.”

“Then get out.”

The colonel reached over, took Alexander’s brandy from the table, and emptied the glass in one gulp. Then he bowed, an exaggerated movement that almost toppled him headfirst into a soup bowl. “God has spoken. I am banished. Fare thee well, former friends.”

Heartsick, Samantha watched him stumble away. No. This could not be allowed to continue.

Pushing her chair back from the table, Samantha stood. “Beg pardon, everyone, I need to use the powder room.” Thinking fast, she added, “My beloved child is playing havoc with me.”

Caroline grimaced sympathetically. “Poor poppet. It’s not nice, is it?”

“Indeed not,” said Samantha, curtsying quickly and hurrying from the room as though she had a chamber pot emergency.

Instead, she followed the sound of unsteady footfalls, which were thankfully loud in the pristine coolness of the portrait gallery. “Lord Robert!”

He stilled, and slowly turned. In the well-lit gallery, there was no hiding the ravages of sleeplessness and a brandy diet. A rough beard covered his jaw, his cheekbones were sunken, and the scarring on his face looked even more prominent and painful. But far worse than that was the emptiness and despair in his amber eyes. This was a man defeated.

“Lady Standish. What do you want? Come to call me a coward again?”

She winced. “I hope one day you’ll forgive me for that. I was quite out of my head. The entire country is well aware you are a man of astonishing bravery and skill.”

“Not now,” he said bitterly. “Now my skill is drinking. Although I am getting more proficient with opiates. Never appreciated them before. But they’re marvelous…shhh, don’t tell Southby.”

Oh God. Any moment she would start sobbing. He was taking opiates?

“Lord Robert,” she said softly, reaching out and touching his arm. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

He recoiled from her as though she’d slapped him. “No. Oh no. Not you, too. I thought you and Standish were happy.”

“Excuse me?” Samantha replied, confused.

“I wanted to believe there was one English rose who could be true. But you’re all the same. Beautiful poison. Take everything, then skip away without a backward glance. Return to your husband, Lady Standish. I neither want nor need your help.”

“Lord Robert, I—”

“Go!” he snarled, then he limped unsteadily away from her.

Rocked to the core, Samantha dashed a tear from her cheek, and slowly made her way back to the dining room.

“Samantha? What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”

She looked up, and with a muffled cry, flew into William’s arms. “You’re here.”

“Well, you did leave without provisions or a bit of string to find your way back,” he said carefully, his embrace warm and comforting. “And I was beginning to miss you terribly.”

Cuddling closer to absorb his heat, she shivered in his arms until her tension finally began to ease. “Oh, William. It’s much worse than you thought.”

“What is?”

“Lord Robert is taking opiates as well as drinking.”

“Christ.”

“And it’s not just the army, or his injuries. He had his heart broken. His English rose. I think she might have been married.”

William stroked her hair. “Robert has made the odd comment in my hearing…I haven’t said anything to Alexander. Maybe I should.”

“I don’t know,” she said uncertainly. “There is so much bad blood between them.”

“Very well. Not yet. Now, come and have a bite to eat. Or do you want to leave?”

“No. We’ll stay. But somehow we must help Lord Robert. I can’t stand to see him so lost and angry.”

William nodded, and they walked in silence back to the dining room.

It was so unfair. Stephen and Caroline, Louisa and Lord Trentham, she and William—all had found true love and the kind of bone-deep happiness that no ode could ever hope to express. And yet it seemed wrong, when a good man like Robert was in so much pain.

Could they reach him in time, before he gave up entirely and the brotherly bonds between him and Alexander were severed for good?

Was there still a chance he could learn to love again?